


Mystery Of Love

by Etherxibo



Category: Chinese Actor RPF, 陈情令 | The Untamed (TV), 陈情令 | The Untamed (TV) RPF
Genre: Blond Wang Yi Bo, Bottom Wang Yi Bo, Bratty Wang Yi Bo, Eventual Smut, He's brunette until 3rd chapter though, M/M, Summer Romance, angst with an.. angsty ending, bjyx - Freeform, borderline obsession, slight child neglect and abuse, there's like a lot of praise of Xiao Zhan, zsww - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-15
Updated: 2021-02-24
Packaged: 2021-03-13 11:07:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 18,184
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29400984
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Etherxibo/pseuds/Etherxibo
Summary: From the moment he stepped out of the car, shutting the door in a nonchalant way I, Wang Yibo, was entranced by the sight and so affected that I couldn't look away. Why did I care about another summer guest? I didn't know the answer to that quite well myself; all I knew was he was the unattainable I wanted to have.Yantai, Summer of 2014 where I found and lost my everything. I wish I could go back and live in the time a little longer.Close to him, this time, I wouldn't let him go even if he wanted to.
Relationships: Wang Yi Bo/Xiao Zhan | Sean
Kudos: 9





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The first chapter has finally been completed! I was worried it'd take longer than this considering I was writing another piece but I finally got done with it. At least the start has been given. :)

I stare out of my window again, maybe I should move on with my life by now and not remember pity things at every stage of life but this is how I've always been. I look at the empty pathway and my eyes catch two boys playing basketball, shouting too much, far more than needed and jumping around like baby monkeys. It's nothing special, nothing to make me smile and think about,  _ oh, I used to be so as a child.. my gone youthful days,  _ because I'm not old enough for that. 

Maybe in the future I would be sipping tea and a pair of new kids would be passing by and it would make me think that way, but not now. Just when I'm about to get up I hear an enthusiastic shout, "Later!"

__ “Later!” 

The word, the voice, the attitude.

I’d never heard anyone use “later” to say goodbye before. It sounded harsh, curt, and dismissive, spoken with the veiled indifference of people who may not care to see or hear from you again. It is the first thing I remember about him, and I can hear it still today. 

_ Later! _

I shut my eyes, say the word, and I’m back in Yantai, so many years ago, walking down the tree-lined driveway, watching him step out of the cab, billowy white shirt, buttoned all the way except the first one, sunglasses, a wrist watch on the left hand that reflected too much light. Suddenly he’s shaking my hand, handing me his backpack, removing his suitcase from the trunk of the cab, asking if my father is home.

It might have started right there and then: the shirt, the rolled-up sleeves, the rounded balls of his heels slipping in and out of his frayed espadrilles, eager to test the hot gravel path that led to our house, every stride already asking, Which way to the beach? 

This summer’s houseguest. Another bore. I couldn't believe my ears, typical American, I wanted to shout but that perhaps would be rude. The Netflix shows and my annoying cousin weren't enough for me to specify a country's attitude. But listen up Americans, if I don't like you after this it's all his fault for leaving a bad impression. 

Then, almost without thinking, and with his back already turned to the car, he waves the back of his free hand and utters a careless Later! to another passenger in the car who has probably split the fare from the station with a bright smile. No name added, no jest to smooth out the ruffled leave-taking, not even a polite bow, nothing. 

His one-word send-off— brisk, bold and blunted and way too informal for someone you met for a few minutes perhaps—take your pick, he couldn’t be bothered which.  _ You watch _ , I thought,  _ this is how he’ll say goodbye to us when the time comes. With a gruff, slapdash Later! _ I didn't know why I was so bothered by that. Meanwhile, we’d have to put up with him for three long months. I was thoroughly annoyed. The unapproachable sort. I could grow to like him, though. From pretty chin to pretty heel. Then, within days, I would learn to hate him.

This, the very person whose photo on the application form months earlier had leapt out with promises of instant affinities. I had seen the photo, so had the rest of my cousins and I hated how some of them pointed out he was very attractive. I also hated that I was getting jealous of a few thirteen and fourteen year old girls. 

Taking in summer guests was my parents’ way of helping young academics revise a manuscript before publication. 

For three months each summer I’d have to vacate my bedroom (my bedroom, for some reason as if that couldn't be someone else's) and move one room down the corridor into a much smaller room that had once belonged to my grandfather. During the winter months, when we were away in the city, it became a part-time toolshed, storage room, and attic where rumor had it my grandfather, my namesake, still ground his teeth in his eternal sleep.

I didn't like to think of it too much, and I quite frankly didn't believe my grandfather's spirit lingered around or even if it did (which it didn't, I'm saying just in case), he wouldn't hurt us if anything. Maybe the tenants, not us, but the defense for my night light and sleeping with music is that I do that everywhere whether it be a rumoured spirit park or my own house. 

Summer residents didn’t have to pay anything, were given the full run of the house, and could basically do anything they pleased, provided they spent an hour or so a day helping my father with his correspondence and assorted paperwork. 

They became part of the family, and after about fifteen years of doing this, we had gotten used to a shower of postcards and gift packages not only around New Year time but all year long from people who were now totally devoted to our family and would go out of their way when they were in China to drop by for a day or two with their family and take a nostalgic tour of their old digs.

At meals there were frequently two or three other guests, sometimes neighbors or relatives, sometimes colleagues, lawyers, doctors, the rich and famous who’d drop by to see my father on their way to their own summer houses. Sometimes we’d even open our dining room to the occasional tourist couple who’d heard of the old villa and simply wanted to come by and take a peek and were totally enchanted when asked to eat with us and tell us all about themselves, while Miyi, informed at the last minute, dished out her usual fare. 

My father, who was reserved and shy in private, loved nothing better than to have some precocious rising expert in a field keep the conversation going in a few languages while the hot summer sun, after a few glasses of Baijiu, ushered in the unavoidable afternoon torpor. We named the task dinner drudgery—and, after a while, so did most of our six-week guests. 

Maybe it started the very day he came and I was asked to show him around the house, like I was a butler to him showing my master the new house he had bought and would be staying for a few time before he returns back to his business. My brother told me not to think of it too much but I wasn't the one to listen of course, I still showed him around with a rather patient brief description about every room. 

Maybe it started soon after his arrival during one of those grinding lunches when he sat next to me and it finally dawned on me that, despite a light tan acquired during his brief stay in Beijing earlier that summer, the color on the palms of his hands was the same as the pale, soft skin of his soles, of his throat, of the bottom of his forearms, which hadn’t really been exposed to much sun. 

Almost a golden, as glistening and smooth as the underside of a copper painted cup. Private, chaste, unfledged, like an Egyptian God's treasure or the sun when it's a little dull. It told me things about him I never knew to ask. It may have started during those endless hours after lunch when everybody lounged about in bathing suits inside and outside the house, bodies sprawled everywhere, killing time before someone finally suggested we head down to the rocks for a swim. 

Relatives, cousins, neighbors, friends, friends of

friends, colleagues, or just about anyone who cared to knock at our gate and ask if they could use our tennis court— everyone was welcome to lounge and swim and eat and, if they stayed long enough, use the guesthouse. He talked to everyone, everyone who approached him and with his pretty face and round eyes it wasn't hard to get a crowd of ladies around him. 

If I had the courage, I'd be a man and go up to him and talk to him too or I'd just grab his hand and tell him to knock off the talk and challenge him down for a run or a swim but I couldn't do that, not when I was too busy listening to his soothing voice talk to all of them, give them satisfying replies. When he clarified he doesn't have a lover or someone he has eye on, I felt disappointed because I was there and I knew I was attractive  _ enough _ but my relief was also expressed in my sigh. At least he didn't have a girlfriend to be jealous of. 

Or perhaps it started on the beach where I wouldn't tell anyone that my excuse of staring too long at the sea than going in wasn't my eyes skimming around for a pretty girl but Xiao Zhan who swam in like he belonged there with his beautiful skin glowing in the sun. My entry in the waters as soon as he came to the shore had nothing to do with how the water slide on his firm chest and stomach. 

Or at the tennis court where I denied to let my mind think too much as I saw him soaked in sweat, it should've been disgusting that it was rolling down his throat but it had me entranced and I licked my dry lips finding it way too hard to look away until Wenhan grabbed my hand and took me to the court. I didn't want to feel irritated how he was playing with everyone, everyone including my annoying little cousins who can barely do a serve and smiled at them, picking them up on his shoulders letting them scream as loud as they wanted, a treatment they wouldn't receive from me. 

I wouldn't lose on purpose to them, I didn't care that they were younger than me by ten years. Maybe I was a little childish, but it was only for a few games and my cousins weren't little angels who understood an adult lost to them because they willed to lose but thought of themselves as some gifted kids. He didn't like to keep them in the fantasy. 

"Don't you think you try too hard for playing with a seven year old?" Xiao Zhan said with a hint of teasing in his voice and I scoffed, my face getting red had nothing to do with how his shirt was sticking to his body and his messy hair that were slicked back. 

Or during our first walk together on his very first day when I was asked to show him the house and its surrounding area and, one thing leading to the other, managed to take him past the very old forged-iron metal gate as far back as the endless empty lot in the hinterland toward the abandoned train tracks that used to connect Chulancun to Shi Goutun. 

“Is there an abandoned station house somewhere?” he asked, looking through the trees under the scalding sun, probably trying to ask the right question of the owner’s son and not a joke because if that's how his humour was going to work, I'd much rather run away in the moment. “No, there was never a station house. The train simply stopped when you asked.” 

He was curious about the train; the rails seemed so narrow. It was a two-wagon train bearing the royal insignia, I explained. Gypsies lived in it now. They’d been living there ever since my mother used to summer here as a girl. 

The gypsies had hauled the two derailed cars farther inland. Did he want to see them? “Later. Maybe.” Polite indifference, as if he’d spotted my misplaced zeal to play up to him and was summarily pushing me away. But it stung me. Instead, he said he wanted to open an account in one of the banks in Yantai, then pay a visit to his Mandarin translator, whom his Mandarin publisher had engaged for his book. I decided to take him there by bike. The conversation was no better on wheels than on foot.

Along the way, we stopped for something to drink. The Sheningai was totally dark and empty. The owner was mopping the floor with a powerful ammonia solution. We stepped outside as soon as we could. A lonely bird, sitting in the dying cherry blossom, sang a few notes that were immediately drowned out by the rattle of the cicadas. 

I took a long swill from a large bottle of mineral water, passed it to him, then drank from it again. I spilled some on my hand and rubbed my face with it, running my wet fingers through my hair. It wasn't the most hygenic, I admit, but the summers can be annoying in Yantai despite being in somewhat North and in the disgrace of my youthfulness, I couldn't be bothered that the water on my face had been travelled to a stranger's mouth. 

The water was insufficiently cold, not fizzy

enough, leaving behind an unslaked likeness of thirst. "What did one do around here?" "Nothing. Wait for summer to end." "What did one do in the winter, then?" I smiled at the answer I was about to give. He got the gist and said, “Don’t tell me: wait for summer to come, right?” I liked having my mind read. He’d pick up on dinner drudgery sooner than those before him. “Actually, in the winter the place gets very gray and dark. We come for New year. Otherwise it’s a ghost town.” 

“And what else do you do here at new year besides roast marshmallows and eat beef?” He was teasing. I offered the same smile as before. He understood, said nothing, we laughed. He asked what I did. I played tennis. Knew skateboarding, was interested in driving a motorbike when I would get a license. Went out at night. Jogged. Transcribed music. He said he jogged too. Early in the morning. 

Where did one jog around here? Along the beach or the useless amount of parks, mostly. I could show him if he wanted. It hit me in the face just when I was starting to like him again, “Later, maybe.” I had put reading last on my list, thinking that, with the willful, brazen attitude he’d displayed so far, reading would figure last on his. 

A few hours later, when I remembered that he had just finished writing a book on Heraclitus and that “reading” was probably not an insignificant part of his life, I realized that I needed to perform some clever backpedaling and let him know that my real interests lay right alongside his. What unsettled me, though, was not the fancy footwork needed to redeem myself. 

It was the unwelcome misgivings with which it finally dawned on me, both then and during our casual conversation by the train tracks, that I had all along, without seeming to, without even admitting it, already been trying—and failing—to win him over. When I did offer—because all visitors loved the idea—to take him near Gancheng street and walk up to the very top of the belfry we nicknamed To-die-for, I should have known better than to just stand there without a comeback. 

I thought I’d bring him around simply by taking him up there and letting him take in the view of the town, the sea, eternity and take in s view of  _ him,  _ the best view I could get these next three months I was willing to show him  _ anything, anything he would want to see, _ I knew places and I understood things and I could make his experience better than sitting with some kids and elder people who don't understand what talk is supposed to be a joke. But no.  _ Later! _

But it might have started way later than I think without my noticing anything at all, after all who can pin point the exact moment. You see someone, but you don’t really see him, he’s in the wings. 

Or you notice him, but nothing clicks, nothing “catches,” and before you’re even aware of a presence, or of something troubling you, the three months that were offered you have almost passed and he’s either already gone or just about to leave, and you’re basically scrambling to come to terms with something, which, unbeknownst to you, has been brewing for weeks under your very nose and bears all the symptoms of what you’re forced to call I want. 

How couldn’t I have known, you ask? I know desire when I see it—and yet, this time, it slipped by completely. I was going for the adorable eye catching smile that would suddenly light up his face each time he’d read my mind, when all I really wanted was skin, just skin. 

At dinner on his first evening, I sensed that he was staring at me as I was explaining the Strange Beasts of China, which I’d been transcribing. I was eighteen that year and, being the youngest at the table and the least likely to be listened to, I had developed the habit of smuggling as much information into the fewest possible words. 

I spoke fast, which gave people the impression that I was always flustered and muffling my words. My not very open personality just added more substance to the theory of being not good at talking in front of people or being overwhelmed by a crowd. While I was those things, my family, even the extended one wasn't what would make me agitated. 

After I had finished explaining my transcription, I became aware of the keenest glance coming from my left. It thrilled and flattered me; he was obviously interested—he liked me. It hadn’t been as difficult as all that, then. But when, after taking my time, I finally turned to face him and take in his glance, I met a cold and icy glare—something at once hostile and vitrified that bordered on cruelty on that usually pretty and friendly face. It undid me completely. 

What had I done to deserve this? I wanted him to be kind to me again, to laugh with me as he had done just a few days earlier on the abandoned train

tracks, or when I’d explained to him that same afternoon that Yantai was the only city in Shandong region where the Shuchi, the regional bus line, whisked by without ever stopping. He had immediately laughed and recognized the veiled allusion to Carlo Levi’s book. I liked how our minds seemed to travel in parallel, how we instantly inferred what words the other was toying with but at the last moment held back. 

He was going to be a difficult neighbor. If the politeness he had shown me was out of force of being his professor's son, then I wouldn't forget about it ever or maybe this way, I actually would forget about him because this wasn't any special. Yes, it was for the best, I had lived quite comfortably ignoring everyone who came and giving nothing more than a few words as replies just so they don't remember me. Xiao Zhan though, I wasn't sure if I wanted him to forget about me. 

I didn't understand him, frankly, he was nice sometimes (most of the times if I was honest but my fresh adult angst-y self wouldn't like that tune) though, he was immensely coyish and had an almost scary expression just like at the dinner. With other adults he was just fine and I felt my heart thump in the fear that I thoroughly hate. 

Getting treated like a child. 

Before, all the students that would come to their house would either be too nice that I was on the verge of tears when it was time for them to go back or absolutely annoying headaches that apparently found it amusing to bully a teenage boy. Bully, was a little exaggerated word indeed since none of them never really harmed me in any way, it's just the pinch in a pure little heart to be brushed away for not being old enough. 

" _ Yibo, we can't play Lego. I'm a twenty year old." _

_ "Yibo, listen to jeijei? I'm not free to take care of you." _

_ "Ge wants a night out to relax, I can't take you or I'll have to babysit you there too." _

Maybe I'm just pitiful about things, maybe I held grudges for too long to remember incidents of years back but my young heart was severely damaged because of hearing those words. It could've been the fact that no one in my family tried to fill that too so I felt hurt more than a simple rejection of playing games should've. 

I stopped asking people when I turned twelve, maybe already hyperaware. I didn't talk to people either, all the confidence that would be shining on my face like the magnolias on my table fell entering my teens and I had become very introverted and shy. 

It helped keep my embarrassing stories to myself but now I wasn't in that age anymore, long gone the fruits of the awful time along with my school days and old uniform packed in a box somewhere around the house, I was a grown up now, not a boy anymore but a man. 

I expected this year to be different since my days of being a childish pitched voice and growing out of my clothes, it was the time I would start interacting with the adult world, maybe make friends or at least acquaintances, if nothing then chit-chats about something (even if it's just the weather or as far as to political talks in hushed tones) although, what I didn't expect was to be treated like a young kid all over again. 

He was treating me like a child. 

If I didn't dislike him before, this thoroughly helped me hate every bone in his body. I no longer cared for the pretty face or his rough but addictive palms. 

Anger indeed was one of the worst things humans could possess, and when anger mixed with ego then it resulted into ugly things sometimes hurting more than the white peonies in the backyard dying; I was on the edge and there was no way to calm me down because I never expressed it through a fist fight or throwing tantrums for not getting a toy, this time my ego was on the stake and I felt the ugly urge of making Xiao Zhan regret every action of his. 

Of course, I didn't do anything like mixing salt in his toothpaste or replacing his aftershave with perfume, I merely decided to turn my head the other way. I, Wang Yibo, was going to ignore Xiao Zhan as long as he stayed in the house. 

When he would meet me in the gallery and wish me good morning with that awful bright smile that I absolutely didn't find endearing, I would just turn away and go the other way. When he would ask me to pass something on the dining table, I would continue eating my food like nothing happened, ignoring my fingers twitching. It should've worked, the whole three days, and I should've seen results but that man was the most annoyingly stupid man I perhaps came across. 

He was either finding it ridiculous that I was ignoring him suddenly or he didn't bother that I was doing that because he didn't care enough to think about what I was thinking. How rude! How dare he? 

I felt my anger rise everytime I didn't receive the reactions I was looking forwards to and he continued to work like a stupid professional with calm and sincerity. I knew what game he was playing, Xiao Zhan was indeed a cruel man, at the young age he was in his coyness didn't sit right with me and if I had the power I would have him sent back to where he came from. 

Xiao Zhan, was trying to play the good and dedicated student who was putting up with a brat of a son of his professor but he was going to do the adult thing and give a pat on my head and feed me the attention I was scratching him for with my paws. What an insolent fool?! I was not doing this to get his attention, I was ignoring him, being the more mature one and not bothering to start a fight! 

I huffed in my room, looking out of the window in the bright garden with the scorching sun. I couldn't let him win, no, this was supposed to be  _ my  _ rule and my house should've been run by the rules I pleased not an outsider who was barely going to be here compared to how long these pillars have stood. I picked up my guitar and then headed out not caring to put on a sunscreen before I did, I was too pale anyways, some sun could help my body. 

Sitting down I closed my eyes, humming out a tune first and then starting to play, wires pulling under my fingertips. "What are you doing out here?" I opened my eyes to look up at Xiao Zhan standing a few steps away, immediately squinting my eyes (I could excuse that with the sun being too bright and not my irritation). Who was he to ask me? I should've been the one saying that. 

But looking at him, my throat was blocked and I lost the ability to hold a conversation. Meanwhile, hearing me scramble for answers made him suspect that perhaps more was amiss than I was showing. “Don’t bother explaining. Just play it again.” 

"But I thought you hated it." I didn't quite know why I said that, maybe fishing for compliments? I wasn't sure what I wanted myself and he was obviously startled by the down tone. "Hated it? Whatever gave you that idea?" We argued back and forth because there was no way I would admit just what I meant and wanted by that. 

“Just play it, will you?” “The same one?” “The same one.” I stood up and walked into the living room, leaving the large French windows open so that he might hear me play it on the piano. He followed me halfway and, leaning on the windows’ wooden frame, listened for a while.

“You changed it. It’s not the same. What did you do to it?”

“I just played it the way Jay chou would have played it had he jimmied around with it.” 

“Just play it again, please!” I liked the way he feigned exasperation. So I started playing the piece again. 

After a while he spoke, “I can’t believe you changed it again.” 

“Well, not by much. This is just how Busoni would have played it if he had altered Jay chou's version.” 

“Can’t you just play it the way you wrote it?” 

“But I never wrote it for guitar. He may not even have written it for the harpsichord. In fact, we’re not even sure it’s by me all.” 

“Forget I asked.” 

“Okay, okay. No need to get so worked up,” I said. It was my turn to feign grudging acquiescence.

“This is just as transcribed by me without Busoni and Liszt. It's very new, and it’s dedicated to his brother.”  _ It's actually dedicated to you,  _ I wanted to say but couldn't. 

I knew exactly what phrase in the piece must have stirred him the first time, and each time I played it, I was sending it to him as a little gift, because it was really dedicated to him, as a token of something very beautiful in me that would take no genius to figure out and that urged me to throw him in an ancient tea house. 

Just for him. We were silent, standing next to each other—and he must have recognized the signs long before I did, I hoped he did with my awful tries and not very appealing tsundere behaviour—flirting. Later that evening in my diary, I wrote I was exaggerating when I said I thought you hated the piece. What I meant to say was,  _ I thought you hated me. I was hoping you’d persuade me of the opposite—and you did, for a while _ . Why won’t I believe it tomorrow morning?

We decided to continue the ignoring game again, mostly my participation involved but he didn't show signs of trying to reach out either to me. It did hurt my ego all over again. 

How could he leave me in such a mess and then proceed to go on perfectly with his life? Was I the only one being so immensely affected by this catch me if you can game? Did he expect me to chase after him like he was a female lead in a Chinese drama? Or was I the one who wanted to be the female lead? I wasn't sure and I didn't want to be left alone with my irrational thoughts. 

I wasn't this, I was better than this, the infamous calm of my nature and cold face seemed to not stand against him. It was like no matter how strong my iceberg was made of his sun was melting it in a few clicks of tongue. 

With that I groaned and fell back on my bed. Why was I thinking about him so much when I had decided to not pay attention to him? Yibo, what are you doing, I thought. If I had the opportunity I would lock my room from the inside and not let anyone in neither step out for a few days but I knew if I did anything as such my mom would come and bang on the door loudly and I didn't want Xiao Zhan to think I'm a child in my emo faze. It would be much worse if mother sent  _ him  _ since his room was so close. 

I took a deep breath and decided to distract myself with something else. Three months, it was possible he wouldn't even do anything than go out, work on his thesis and then pack his bags to go back home. If Yibo was careful he wouldn't have to interact at all with him. 

Few days passed, we sat side by side almost everyday at the dining table, and I was prepared for he might have found my avoidance offensive and retaliated with a hostile glance from time to time never crossed my mind either. What I hoped he hadn’t noticed in my overreaction to his grip was something else. 

Before shaking off his arm, I knew I had yielded to his hand and had almost leaned into it, as if to say—as I’d heard elders so often say when someone happened to massage their shoulders while passing behind them—Don’t stop. 

Had he noticed I was ready not just to yield but to mold into his body? This was the feeling I took to my diary that night as well, I called it the “swoon.” Why had I swooned? And could it happen so easily—just let him touch me somewhere and I’d totally go limp and will-less? Was this what people meant by butter melting?And why wouldn’t I show him how like butter I was? Because I was afraid of what might happen then? 

Or was I afraid he would have laughed at me, told everyone, or ignored the whole thing on the pretext I was too young to know what I was doing? I feared the possibilities even after I had thought I had prepared myself for them. Or was it because if he so much as suspected—and anyone who suspected would of necessity be on the same wavelength—he might be tempted to act on it? 

Did I want him to act? Or would I prefer a lifetime of longing provided we both kept this little Ping-Pong game going, not knowing, not-not knowing, not-not-not knowing? 

Just be quiet, say nothing, and if you can’t say “yes,” don’t say “no,” say “later.” Is this why people say “maybe” when they mean “yes,” but hope you’ll think it’s “no” when all they really mean is,  _ Please, just ask me once more, and once more after that? _ I'm not sure if anyone could understand that, but later now I have found a few people I can joke about these things to and perhaps, my bad luck was Xiao Zhan wasn't one of them. 

Our cold war eventually came to an end. Or a break at least since I had stopped ignoring his greetings, started to help him around when he asked for and gave him a curt nod when he spoke to me. A lot for me, I would like to remind. I wasn't the best with people per say and I really didn't know why I was being so bold and rash with him but my parents liked that I was somehow at least talking. 

When he found me in the living room again, he didn't pick a chair to sit on just like last time and just leaned against the glass door looking at me while I tried to think my face getting red was just the temperature. Thankfully, the amount of jokes Seungyeon made on my red face would help Xiao Zhan think the same as well. 

"You're not playing what you did that day."  _ Because it's only for you to listen, what could I do to play without your presence,  _ was the answer I wanted to give and probably should've. I only replied with a "Mn", and it was enough for him as he bobbed his head up and down as if accepting. 

For a while I played and then stopped, my eyes travelling on Xiao Zhan's body. He was tall, I had figured but I was at a good height myself being taller than average so I didn't notice it too much. At the moment though, I don't know if it was the baggy clothes or just his posture, he looked _tall_ and I frowned and got up from where I sat, walking to where he stood. "You're tall, Xiao Zhan." I said, matter of factly and my eyes went down to his soft looking ankles to above my eye level, his eyes, realizing how close I was standing to him. 

For a moment I felt the time stop like we were in a movie or like I was reading a rom-com in my teenage making up scenarios in my head with the cure boy in my class, flustered and a mess but forcing a stop to those thoughts not letting them run too wild. I wanted to hold his palm, stand on my toes and then press my lips on him to see if my imagination was right, I wanted to taste him but I couldn't. 

He seemed to understand as well, gulping and I stammered out an apology. Before I could stand there longer, state at his thin lips and do something worse or wait for his softer and melodic voice to reach my ears and get flustered (my gaze wasn't going on his faint red tinted cheeks, not in a hundred years), 

I ran out. 

I ran and didn't look back at his startled face or the little frown that followed or his lips curling into saying my name. 

Come to think of it, it was childish of me to do so. I feared making people think I'm too young yet the adulthood washing on me was really just shallow for the time and I ended up acting like a fool at occasions I wish I didn't. I look back to that summer and can’t believe that despite every one of my efforts to live with the “fire” and the “swoon,” life still granted wonderful moments. 

_ Yantai.  _

_ Summer.  _

_ The noise of the cicadas in the early afternoon.  _

_ And him.  _

  
  



	2. Chapter 2

I had thought about being difficult, about being a brat and probably annoying him so he won't look at me at all and I could stare at him all the time, stare as long as it was possible, then, I could possibly save his face in a sweet memory and lock it so no one could reach it. 

We never brought the topic up of me running away, he never asked about it further and I wanted to forget the humiliating incident so my lips were sealed quite obviously. Besides, I was starting to like him way too much to make him uncomfortable around me. After more than a week I had wasted in weird attempts, I was getting to see him and start any talk at all, this would die if I tried too hard. 

It would never have entered my mind because I was still under the illusion that, barring what I’d read in books, inferred from rumors, and overheard in bawdy talk all over, no one my age had ever wanted to be both man and woman—with men and women. I had wanted other men my age before andi had slept with a few although I never told anyone about it. 

But before he’d stepped out of the cab and walked into our home, it would never have seemed remotely possible that someone so thoroughly okay with himself might want me to share his body as much as I ached to yield up mine. And yet, about two weeks after his arrival, all I wanted every night was for him to leave his room, not via its front door, but through the French windows on our.balcony. 

I wanted to hear his window open, hear his espadrilles on the balcony, and then the sound of my own window, which was never locked, being pushed open as he’d step into my room after everyone had gone to bed, slip under my covers, undress me without asking, and after making me want him more than I thought I could ever want another living soul, gently, softly, and, with the kindness one bird extends to another, work his way into my body, gently and softly, after heeding the words I’d been rehearsing for days now, 

_ Please, don’t hurt me, _ which meant,  _ Hurt me all you want _ . I seldom stayed in my room during the day. Instead, for the past few summers I had appropriated a round table with an umbrella in the back garden by the pool. Pavel, our previous summer resident, had liked working in his room, occasionally stepping out onto the balcony to get a glimpse of the sea or smoke a cigarette. Maynard, before him, had also worked in his room. 

Xiao Zhan needed company. He began by sharing my table but eventually grew to like throwing a large sheet on the grass and lying on it, flanked by loose pages of his manuscript and what he liked to call his “things”, monade, suntan lotion, books, espadrilles, sunglasses, colored pens, and music, which he listened to with headphones, so that it was impossible to speak to him unless he was speaking to you first. 

Clever, for saving him from my aunts. Sometimes, when I came downstairs with my scorebook or other books in the morning, he was already sprawled in the sun wearing his blue or black bathing suit and sweating. 

We’d go jogging or swimming, and return to find breakfast waiting for us. Then he got in the habit of leaving his “things'' on the grass and lying right on the tiled edge of the pool—called “heaven,” short for “This is heaven,” as he often said after lunch, “I’m going to heaven now,” adding, as an inside joke among Latinists, “to apricate.” 

We would tease him about the countless hours he would spend soaking in suntan lotion as he lay on the same exact spot along the pool. “How long were you in heaven this morning?” my mother would ask with a big smile, something she had never passed to me at least not in the years I remembered. 

“Two straight hours. But I plan to return early this afternoon for a much longer aprication.” Going to the orle of paradise also meant lying on his back along the edge of the pool with one leg dangling in the water, wearing his headphones and his cap on his face. Here was someone who lacked for nothing. I couldn’t understand this feeling. I envied him.

“Xiao Zhan, are you sleeping?” I would ask when the air by the pool had grown oppressively torpid and quiet. Silence. Then his reply would come, almost a sigh, without a single muscle moving in his body. “I was.” “Sorry.” That foot in the water—I could have kissed every toe on it. Then kissed his ankles and his knees. How often had I stared at his bathing suit while his hat was covering his face? He couldn’t possibly have known what I was looking at. Or, “Xiao Zhan, are you sleeping?” Long silence.

“No. Thinking.”

“About what?”

His toes flicking the water.

“About Heidegger’s interpretation of a fragment by

Heraclitus.” 

Or, when I wasn’t practicing the guitar and he wasn’t listening to his headphones, still with his straw hat flat on his face, he would suddenly break the silence, 

“Yibo.”

“Yes?”

“What are you doing?”

“Reading.” 

“No, you’re not.” 

“Thinking, then.” 

“About?” I was dying to tell him.

“Private,” I replied. 

“So you won’t tell me?” 

“So I won’t tell you.”

“So he won’t tell me,” he repeated, pensively, as if explaining to someone about me, a third party sitting beside us just listening to his words carefully. How I loved the way he repeated what I myself had just repeated, or maybe I was gone enough to like anything about him. 

It made me think of a caress, or of a gesture, which happens to be totally accidental the first time but becomes intentional the second time and more so yet the third. It reminded me of the way Miyi would make my bed every morning, first by folding the top sheet over the blanket, then by folding the sheet back again to cover the pillows on top of the blanket, and once more yet when she folded the whole thing over the bedspread—back and forth until I knew that tucked in between these multiple folds were tokens of something at once pious and indulgent, like acquiescence in an instant of passion. 

Silence was always light and unobtrusive on those afternoons. “I’m not telling,” I said. “Then I’m going back to sleep,” he’d say. My heart was racing. He must have known. Profound silence again. Moments later, "This is heaven.” And I wouldn’t hear him say another word for at least an hour.

There was nothing I loved more in life than to sit at my table and pore over my transcriptions while he lay on his belly marking pages he’d pick up every morning from Hua Chi-peng, his translator in Yantai. 

“Listen to this,” he’d sometimes say, removing his headphones, breaking the oppressive silence of those long sweltering summer mornings. “Just listen to this drivel.” And he’d proceed to read aloud something he couldn’t believe he had written months earlier. “Does it make any sense to you? Not to me.” 

“Maybe it did when you wrote it,” I said. He thought for a while as though weighing my words. “That’s the kindest thing anyone’s said to me in months”— spoken ever so earnestly, as if he was hit by a sudden revelation and was taking what I’d said to mean much more than I thought it did. 

I felt ill at ease, looked away, and finally muttered the first thing that came to mind not wanting the sweet voice to stop, “Kind?” I asked. “Yes, kind.” I didn’t know what kindness had to do with it. Or perhaps I wasn’t seeing clearly enough where all this was headed and preferred to let the matter slide. Silence again. Until the next time he’d speak.

How I loved it when he broke the silence between us to say something—anything—or to ask what I thought about this possibility, or had I ever heard of that theory? Nobody in our household ever asked my opinion about anything. If he hadn’t already figured out why, he would soon enough—it was only a matter of time before he fell in with everyone’s view that I was the baby of the family. 

And yet here he was in his third week with us, asking me if I’d ever heard of Athanasius Kircher, Giuseppe Belli, and Paul Celan. 

“I have.” “I’m half a decade older than you are and until a few days ago I had never heard of any of them. I don’t get it.” “What’s not to get? Dad’s a university professor. I grew up without TV. Get it now?” “Go back to your plunking, will you!” he said as though crumpling a towel and throwing it at my face. I even liked the way he told me off.

One day while moving my notebook on the table, I

accidentally tipped over my glass. It fell on the grass. It didn’t break. Xiao Zhan, who was close by, got up, picked it up, and placed it, not just on the table, but right next to my pages. I didn’t know where to find the words to thank him. 

“You didn’t have to,” I finally said. He let just enough time go by for me to register that his answer might not be casual or carefree. “I wanted to.” He wanted to, I thought. I wanted to, I imagined him repeating—kind, complaisant, effusive, as he was when the mood would suddenly strike him.

To me those hours spent at that round wooden table in our garden with the large umbrella imperfectly shading my papers, the chinking of our iced lemonades, the sound of the not-too-distant surf gently lapping the giant rocks below, and in the background, from some neighboring house, the muffled crackle of the hit parade medley on perpetual replay—all these are forever impressed on those mornings when all I prayed for was for time to stop. 

Let summer never end, let him never go away, let the music on perpetual replay play forever, I’m asking for very little, and I swear I’ll ask for nothing more, not as long as this could be possible, because it was everything I wanted and with it being fulfilled I couldn't dare even divert my eyes to anything else, far lied wishing something. 

What did I want? And why couldn’t I know what I wanted, even when I was perfectly ready to be brutal in my admissions? Perhaps the very least I wanted was for him to tell me that there was nothing wrong with me, that I was no less human than any other young man my age. I would have been satisfied and asked for nothing else than if he’d bent down and picked up the dignity I could so effortlessly have thrown at his feet.

I was Glaucus and he was Diomedes. In the name of somestepp obscure cult among men, I was giving him my golden armor for his bronze. Fair exchange. Neither haggled, just as neither spoke of thrift or extravagance. The word “friendship” came to mind. 

But friendship, as defined by everyone, was alien, fallow stuff I cared nothing steppe for. What I may have wanted instead, from the moment he stepped out of the cab to our farewell in Dazhuang, was what all humans ask of one another, what makes life livable. It would have to come from him first. Then possibly from me.

There is a law somewhere that says that when one person is thoroughly smitten with the other, the other must unavoidably be smitten as well. 

Love, which exempts no one who’s loved from loving, Francesca’s words in the Inferno. Just wait and be hopeful. 

I was hopeful, though perhaps this was what I had wanted all along. To wait forever. As I sat there working on transcriptions at my round table in the morning, what I would have settled for was not his friendship, not anything. Just to look up and find him there, suntan lotion, blue bathing suit, lemonade. 

To look up and find you there, Xiao Zhan. For the day will come soon enough when I’ll look up and you’ll no longer be there. By late morning, friends and neighbors from adjoining houses frequently dropped in.

Everyone would gather in our garden and then head out together to the beach below. Our house was the closest to the water, and all you needed was to open the tiny gate by the balustrade, take the narrow stairway down the bluff, and you were on the rocks. Julie, one of the girls who three years ago was shorter than I and who just last summer couldn’t leave me alone, had now blossomed into a woman who had finally mastered the art of not always greeting me whenever we met. 

Once, she and her younger sister dropped in with the rest, picked up Xiao Zhan’s shirt on the grass, threw it at him, and said, “Enough. We’re going to the beach and you’re coming.” He was willing to oblige. “Let me just put away these papers. Otherwise his father”—and with his hands carrying papers he used his chin to point at me—“will skin me alive.” 

“Talking about skin, come here,” she said, and with her fingernails gently and slowly tried to pull a sliver of peeling skin from his tanned shoulders, which had acquired the light golden hue of a wheat field in late June. How I wished I could do that, jealousy threatened to tingle my chest. “Tell his father that I crumpled his papers. See what he says then.”

Looking over his manuscript, which Xiao Zhan had left on the large dining table on his way upstairs, Julie shouted from below that she could do a better job translating these pages than the local translator. A child of expats like me, Julie had a Chinese mother and an American father. She spoke English and Mandarin with both. 

“Do you type good too?” came his voice from upstairs as he rummaged for another bathing suit in his bedroom, then in the shower, doors slamming, drawers thudding, shoes kicked. “I type good,” she shouted, looking up into the empty stairwell.

“As good as you speak good?”

“Bettah. And I’d’a gave you a bettah price too.”

“I need five pages translated per day, to be ready for pickup every morning.”

“Then I won’t do nu’in for you,” snapped Julie. “Find yuhsef somebuddy else.”

“Well, Hua Chi-peng needs the money,” he said, coming downstairs, billowy blue shirt, espadrilles, red trunks, sunglasses, and the red Loeb edition of Lucretius that never left his side. “I’m okay with her,” he said as he rubbed some lotion on his shoulders. “I’m okay with her,” Julie said, tittering. “I’m okay with you, you’re okay with me, she’s okay with him—” “Stop clowning and let’s go swimming,” said Julie’s sister.

He had, it took me a while to realize, four personalities depending on which bathing suit he was wearing. Knowing which to expect gave me the illusion of a slight advantage. 

Black: bold, set in his ways, very grown-up, almost gruff and ill-tempered—stay away. Yellow: sprightly, buoyant, funny, not without barbs—don’t give in too easily; might turn to red in no time. Green, which he seldom wore: acquiescent, eager to learn, eager to speak, sunny—why wasn’t he always like this? Blue: the afternoon he stepped into my room from the balcony, the day he massaged my shoulder, or when he picked up my glass and placed it right next to me.

Today was black, he was hasty, determined, snappy. On his way out, he grabbed an apple from a large bowl of fruit, uttered a cheerful “Later, Mrs. P.” to my mother, who was sitting with two friends in the shade, all three of them in bathing suits, and, rather than open the gate to the narrow stairway leading to the rocks, jumped over it. 

None of our summer guests had ever been as freewheeling. But everyone loved him for it, the way everyone grew to love Later! “Okay, Xiao Zhan, later, okay,” said my mother, trying to speak his lingo, having even grown to accept her new title as Mrs. P. There was always something abrupt about that word.

It wasn’t “See you later” or “Take care, now,” or even “Ciao.” Later! was a chilling, slam-dunk salutation that shoved aside all our honeyed Asian niceties. Later! always left a sharp aftertaste to what until then may have been a warm, heart-to-heart moment. Later! didn’t close things neatly or allow them to trail off. It slammed them shut. But Later! was also a way of avoiding saying goodbye, of making light of all goodbyes. 

You said Later! not to mean farewell but to say you’d be back in no time. It was the equivalent of his saying “Just a sec” when my mother once asked him to pass the bread and he was busy pulling apart the fish bones on his plate. “Just a sec.” 

My mother, who hated what she called his Americanisms, ended up calling him Il cauboi—the cowboy. It started as a putdown and soon enough became an endearment, to go along with her other nickname for him, conferred during his first week, when he came down to the dinner table after showering, his glistening hair combed back. De star, she had said, short for De movie star. 

My father, always the most indulgent among us, but also the most observant, had figured the cauboi out. “ _Tā hàixiū_ , he’s shy, that’s why,” he said when asked to explain Xiao Zhan’s abrasive _Later_! Xiao Zhan hàixiū? That was new. Could all of his gruff Americanisms be nothing more than an exaggerated way of covering up the simple fact that he didn’t know—or feared he didn’t know—how to take his leave gracefully? 

It reminded me of how for days he had refused to eat soft-boiled eggs in the morning. By the fourth or fifth day, Miyi insisted he couldn’t leave the region without tasting our eggs. 

He finally consented, only to admit, with a touch of genuine embarrassment that he never bothered to conceal, that he didn’t know how to open a soft-boiled egg. “Líkāi fare a me, _Xiānshēng Seen_ , leave it to me,” she said. From that morning on and well into his stay with us, she would bring Seen two eggs and stop serving everyone until she had sliced open the shell of both his eggs. Did he perhaps want a third? she asked. Some people liked more than two eggs. No, two would do, he replied, and, turning to my parents, added, “I know myself. If I have three, I’ll have a fourth, and more.” 

I had never heard someone his age say, I know myself. It intimidated me.But she had been won over well before, on his third morning with us, when she asked him if he liked juice in the morning, and he’d said yes. He was probably expecting orange or grapefruit juice; what he got was a large glass filled to the rim with thick apricot juice. He had never had apricot juice in his life. 

She stood facing him with her salver flat against her apron, trying to make out his reaction as he quaffed it down. He said nothing at first. Then, probably without thinking, he smacked his lips. She was in heaven. My mother couldn’t believe that people who taught at world-famous universities smacked their lips after downing apricot juice. 

From that day on, a glass of the stuff was waiting for him every morning. He was baffled to know that apricot trees existed in, of all places, our orchard. On late afternoons, when there was nothing to do in the house, Miyi would ask him to climb a ladder with a basket and pick those fruits that were almost blushing with shame, she said. 

He would joke in Chinese, pick one out, and ask, Is this one blushing with shame? No, she would say, this one is too young still, youth has no shame, shame comes with age. I shall never forget watching him from my table as he climbed the small ladder wearing his red bathing trunks, taking forever to pick the ripest apricots. 

On his way to the kitchen—wicker basket, espadrilles, billowy shirt, suntan lotion, and all—he threw me a very large one, saying,“Yours,” in just the same way he’d throw a tennis ball across the court and say, “Your serve.” Of course, he had no idea what I’d been thinking minutes earlier, but the firm, rounded cheeks of the apricot with their dimple in the middle reminded me of how his body had stretched across the boughs of the tree with his tight, rounded ass echoing the color and the shape of the fruit. Touching the apricot was like touching him.

He would never know, just as the people we buy the newspaper from and then fantasize about all night have no idea that this particular inflection on their face or that tan along their exposed shoulder will give us no end of pleasure when we’re alone. 

Yours, like Later!, had an off-the-cuff, unceremonious, here, catch quality that reminded me how twisted and secretive my desires were compared to the expansive spontaneity of everything about him. 

It would never have occurred to him that in placing the apricot in my palm he was giving me his ass to hold or that, in biting the fruit, I was also biting into that part of his body that must have been fairer than the rest because it never apricated—and near it, if I dared to bite that far, his apricock. In fact, he knew more about apricots than we did—their grafts, etymology, origins, fortunes in and around the Mediterranean. 

At the breakfast table that morning, my father explained that the name for the fruit came from the Arabic, since the word—in Italian, albicocca, abricot in French,aprikose in German, like the words "algebra,” “alchemy,” and “alcohol”—was derived from an Arabic noun combined with the Arabic article al- before it. The origin of albicocca was al-birquq. 

My father, who couldn’t resist not leaving well enough alone and needed to top his entire performance with a little fillip of more recent vintage, added that what was truly amazing was that, in Israel and in many Arab countries nowadays, the fruit is referred to by a totally different name: mishmish. My mother was nonplussed. We all, including my two cousins who were visiting that week, had an impulse to clap.

On the matter of etymologies, however, Xiao Zhan begged to differ. “Ah?!” was my father’s startled response. “The word is actually not an Arabic word,” he said. “How so?” My father was clearly mimicking Socratic irony, which would start with an innocent “You don’t say,” only then to lead his interlocutor onto turbulent shoals. 

“It’s a long story, so bear with me, Pro.” Suddenly Xiao Zhan had become serious. “Many Latin words are derived from the Greek. In the case of ‘apricot,’ however, it’s the other way around; the Greek takes over from Latin. The Latin word was praecoquum, from pre-coquere, pre-cook, to ripen early, as in ‘precocious,’ meaning premature.

“The Byzantines borrowed praecox, and it became prekokkia or berikokki, which is finally how the Arabs musthave inherited it as al-birquq.” My mother, unable to resist his charm, reached out to him and tousled his hair and said, “Nà muvi star!”

“He is right, there is no denying it,” said my father under his breath, as though mimicking the part of a cowered Galileo forced to mutter the truth to himself. “Courtesy of Philology 101,” said Xiao Zhan.

All I kept thinking of was apricock precock, precock apricock. One day I saw Xiao Zhan sharing the same ladder with the gardener, trying to learn all he could about Anchise’s grafts, which explained why our apricots were larger, fleshier, juicier than most apricots in the region. 

He became fascinated with the grafts, especially when he discovered that the gardener could spend hours sharing everything he knew about them with anyone who cared to ask. Xiao Zhan, it turned out, knew more about all manner of foods, cheeses, and wines than all of us put together.

Even Miyi was wowed and would, on occasion, defer to his opinion—Do you think I should lightly fry the paste with either onions or sage? Doesn’t it taste too lemony now? I ruined it, didn’t I? I should have added an extra egg—it’s not holding! Should I use the new blender or should I stick to the old mortar and pestle? My mother couldn’t resist throwing in a barb or two. Like all caubois, she said: they know everything there is to know about food, because they can’t hold a knife and fork properly.

Gourmet aristocrats with plebian manners. Feed him in the kitchen. With pleasure, Miyi would have replied. And indeed, one day when he arrived very late for lunch after spending the morning with his translator, there was Xiānshēng Seen in the kitchen, eating spaghetti and drinking dark red wine with Miyi, Xuan, her husband and our driver, and Anchise, all of them trying to teach him a Neapolitan song. It was not only the national hymn of their southern youth, but it was the best they could offer when they wished to entertain royalty.

Everyone was won over.

Julie, I could tell, was equally smitten. Her sister as well. Even the crowd of tennis bums who for years had come early every afternoon before heading out to the beach for a late swim would stay much later than usual hoping to catch a quick game with him. With any of our other summer residents I would have resented it. But seeing everyone take such a liking to him, I found a strange, small oasis of peace.

What could possibly be wrong with liking someone everyone else liked?

Everyone had fallen for him, including my first and second cousins as well as my other relatives, who stayed with us on weekends and sometimes longer. For someone known to love spotting defects in everyone else, I derived a certain satisfaction from concealing my feelings for him behind my usual indifference, hostility, or spite for anyone in a position to outshine me at home. 

Because everyone liked him, I had to say I liked him too. I was like men who openly declare other men irresistibly handsome the better to conceal that they’re aching to embrace them. To withhold universal approval would simply alert others that I had concealed motives for needing to resist him. 

Oh, I like him very much, I said during his first ten days when my father asked me what I thought of him. I had used words intentionally compromising because I knew no one would suspect a false bottom in the arcane palette of shadings I applied to everything I said about him.

He’s the best person I’ve known in my life, I said on the night when the tiny fishing boat on which he had sailed out with Anchise early that afternoon failed to return and we were scrambling to find his parents’ telephone number in the States in case we had to break the terrible news. On that day I even urged myself to let down my inhibitions and show my grief the way everyone else was showing theirs. 

But I also did it so none might suspect I nursed sorrows of a far more secret and more desperate kind—until I realized, almost to my shame, that part of me didn’t mind his dying, that there was even something almost exciting in the thought of his bloated, eyeless body finally showing up on our shores. But I wasn’t fooling myself. I was convinced that no one in the world wanted him as physically as I did; nor was anyone willing to go the distance I was prepared to travel for him. 

No one had studied every bone in his body, ankles, knees, wrists, fingers, and toes, no one lusted after every ripple of muscle, no one took him to bed every night and on spotting him in the morning lying in his heaven by the pool, smiled at him, watched a smile come to his lips.

Perhaps even the others nursed an extra something for him, which each concealed and displayed in his or her own way. Unlike the others, though, I was the first to spot him when he came into the garden from the beach or when the flimsy silhouette of his bicycle, blurred in the midafternoon mist, would appear out of the alley of pines leading to our house.

I was the first to recognize his steps when he arrived late at the movie theater one night and stood there looking for the rest of us, not uttering a sound until I turned around knowing he’d be overjoyed I’d spotted him. I recognized him by the inflection of his footfalls up the stairway to our balcony or on the landing outside my bedroom door. I knew when he stopped outside my French windows, as if debating whether to knock and then thinking twice, and continued walking. 

I knew it was he riding a bicycle by the way the bike skidded ever so mischievously on the deep gravel path and still kept going when it was obvious there couldn’t be any traction left, only to come to a sudden, bold, determined stop, with something of a declarative voilà in the way he jumped off. I always tried to keep him within my field of vision. I never let him drift away from me except when he wasn’t with me. 

And when he wasn’t with me, I didn’t much care what he did so long as he remained the exact same person with others as he was with me. Don’t let him be someone else when he’s away. Don’t let him be someone I’ve never seen before. Don’t let him have a life other than the life I know he has with us, with me. Don’t let me lose him.

I knew I had no hold on him, nothing to offer, nothing to lure him by.

I was nothing.

Just a kid.

He simply doled out his attention when the occasion suited him. When he came to my assistance to help me understand a fragment by Heraclitus, because I was determined to read “his” author, the words that sprang to me were not “gentleness” or “generosity” but “patience” and “forbearance,” which ranked higher. 

Moments later, when he asked if I liked a book I was reading, his question was prompted less by curiosity than by an opportunity for casual chitchat. Everything was casual. He was okay with casual. How come you’re not at the beach with the others? Go back to your plunking.

Later!

Yours!

Just making conversation.

Casual chit chat.

Nothing.

Xiao Zhan was receiving many invitations to other houses. This had become something of a tradition with our other summer residents as well. My father always wanted them to feel free to “talk” their books and expertise around town. He also believed that scholars should learn how to speak to the layman, which was why he always had lawyers, doctors, businessmen over for meals. Everyone in China has read Out of Mao's shadow, Factory girls and China in ten words, he’d say. Doesn’t matter whom you’re talking to, so long as you out of Mao's shadow them. 

China in ten words is a must, out of Mao's shadow comes next, and then feel free to dazzle them with everything you’ve got, who cares. This also had the advantage of allowing all of our summer residents to perfect their Chinese, one of the requirements of the residency. Having them on the dinner circuit around also had another benefit. It relieved us from having them at our table every single night of the week. 

But Xiao Zhan’s invitations had become vertiginous. Julie and her sister wanted him at least twice a week. A cartoonist from Brussels, who rented a villa all summer long, wanted him for his exclusive Sunday soupers to which writers and scholars from the environs were always invited. 

Then the Chenqing, from three villas down, the Mo from Fanxi, and the occasional acquaintance struck up at one of the bars on the piazzetta, or at Hao fe. All this to say nothing of his poker and bridge playing at night, which flourished by means totally unknown to us. His life, like his papers, even when it gave every impression of being chaotic, was always meticulously compartmentalized. Sometimes he skipped dinner altogether and would simply tell Miyi, “Esco, I’m going out.”

His _Esco_ , I realized soon enough, was just another

version of Later! A summary and unconditional goodbye, spoken not as you were leaving, but after you were out the door. You said it with your back to those you were leaving behind. I felt sorry for those on the receiving end who wished to appeal, to plead. Not knowing whether he’d show up at the dinner table was torture. But bearable. Not daring to ask whether he’d be there was the real ordeal. 

Having my heart jump when I suddenly heard his voice or saw him seated at his seat when I’d almost given up hoping he’d be among us tonight eventually blossomed like a poisoned flower. 

Seeing him and thinking he’d join us for dinner tonight only to hear his peremptory Esco taught me there are certain wishes that must be clipped like wings off a thriving butterfly. I wanted him gone from our home so as to be done with him. I wanted him dead too, so that if I couldn’t stop thinking about him and worrying about when would be the next time I’d see him, at least his death would put an end to it. 

I wanted to kill him myself, even, so as to let him know how much his mere existence had come to bother me, how unbearable his ease with everything and everyone, taking all things in stride, his tireless I’m-okay-with-this-and-that, his springing across the gate to the beach when everyone else opened the latch first, to say nothing of his bathing suits, his spot in paradise, his cheeky 

Later!, 

his lip-smacking love for apricot juice. If I didn’t kill him, then I’d cripple him for life, so that he’d be with us in a wheelchair and never go back to the States. If he were in a wheelchair, I would always know where he was, and he’d be easy to find. I would feel superior to him and become his master, now that he was crippled.

Then it hit me that I could have killed myself instead, or hurt myself badly enough and let him know why I’d done it. If I hurt my face, I’d want him to look at me and wonder why, why might anyone do this to himself, until, years and years later—yes, Later!—he’d finally piece the puzzle together and beat his head against the wall. 

Sometimes it was Julie who had to be eliminated. I knew what she was up to. At my age, her body was more than ready for him. More than mine? I wondered. She was after him and it annoyed me till I couldn't express it in words. He didn't look at her, not in the sense she wanted him to. Or so I thought, or so I told myself at least. Maybe I was trying to make it seem so, to give myself some comfort. 

It didn't matter which one was the case a lot at the moment I got fed up of her fondling over him, quite literally and he wouldn't stop her because dear lord that made all the beings, why was Xiao Zhan the most obvious and nicest one?? I would've mistakened his polite smiles and not pushing her off himself as him being interested as well if he didn't straight up tell me the next night that he didn't like to go to Julie's because the girl was 'a little touchy'. 

A little touchy. I wanted to burst out laughing as his choice of words, it was almost like a kindergartner trying to come up with an insult for someone who pushed them off the slide. Why was Xiao Zhan the way he was, was still a mystery to me till this date. However, it sure was endearing and maybe that's the thing about him I liked so much. He was considerate and kind. Maybe that's why everyone liked him. 

I should've been jealous of him, I should've been fighting the attention off him and proving myself better, more worth the limelight like other raging hormones new adult boys his age but I just couldn't find myself doing that at all, not to Xiao Zhan, if anything I would agree and join his little fanclub he had managed to gather. 

For all I was, was a fool in love, and my biggest mistake might have been picking the perfect boy to dot on. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Xiansheng is "mister" and "seen" is a funny way of pronouncing Sean. I thought Miyi (the maid) should be a local chines woman and therefore she doesn't say Sean but Seen instead. Xiao Zhan doesn't correct her because he's too nice.
> 
> This chapter was simply just Yibo watching Xiao Zhan and falling in love just how the rest of the book is going to be, kidding (I'm not). 
> 
> Next update will be when I actually decide to sit down and right, I don't have any ideas running in mind and hopefully do get some soon.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tw : homophobic references, slight domestic abuse topics, gender rigid comments!

My unhealthy clinging to the rose scented perfume he used and his natural smell like woods had possibly been there since the very start—blooming in silence, hidden behind my lips pressed together that would only open for small replies and hence never really on display like the affection others gave him served on a silver platter. 

Trying to figure out, I had spent a day in the perfume shop just seeing if I could find that particular scent anywhere yet I couldn't. The salesmen were confused, but their efforts didn't reach enough to help me and I had to go back home without any progress. I would ask him myself but I wouldn't want him to think I was noticing him that closely (even if I was, I didn't want him to know) and make him stray away from me. 

Maybe I would just have to sneak in some day, pick it up and catch a picture so I could order it later on some day or just would have to keep looking till I found the one I'm spending this much effort for. I knew I would find it some or the other way, I hadn't been the one to stop till I got the things in my mind, call it over-privileged or simply focused (and maybe if my focus had been in my school like this, I would graduate with better grades). 

I had also noticed my coping mechanism had somehow self-installed itself and now I was back to the 'boring cold kid' in the neighborhood like I used to be, unlike everyone just quiet and not moving too much, glaring at people left and right or just ignoring them and walking away; it wasn't something I was proud of nor liked but had been with me like a curse since I was young. 

My family never cared enough to see if I was really quiet or just scared and who didn't like kids who wouldn't make trouble anyway? I saved a lot of money for babysitting given I was considered calm enough to watch out and not create havoc. 

Was I calm by nature? Not really. I just needed to feel safe enough to annoy people to death, my friends had seen the worse of me and they would miss my old reserved self when I would jump on their backs and scream in their ears. After all, I was just like other kids, a little less bold and embarrassing but just the same when warmed up. 

I had warmed up to Xiao Zhan way too quickly than I would like to accept, it was something about his presence that could make you feel safe and nurture you just with a small curl of lips and I found myself going through the caves of his charm like a moth flying to the electric bulb again and again seeking its death—he had always been bright enough to light up a room and maybe in all the confessions I have made till now it was clear I was absolutely smitten with him and everything related to him. 

Now, with all the love-showering he was receiving and the attention he had managed to gather without trying, I had started to build my walls back up. I stopped chattering on the table, following him around like a lost toddler or finding him in his room and preoccupying him in meaningless conversation for hours. I sticked to my room, went out by myself, didn't ask for Xiao Zhan's whereabouts and kept a headphone on even if nothing would be playing to avoid anyone approaching him and trying to talk to him. 

It wasn't good to do that and I could see mother sigh in disappointment, she never failed to express how I was ruining the mood of the place in private but at the dinner during his third week, she slammed her spoon on the table when I didn't react to my aunt constantly bugging me about "what college are you going for sweetie?" even after I had replied three times. 

Xiao Zhan stilled at her action visibly while my father just sent a chilling glare to me across the table, all my cousins ducking their head down in their food like they had learned to in all these years. "Is that a way to act, Yibo? Is this how we're raising you?" She shouted, her pitched voice hurting my ears making it hard not to flinch but I just kept sitting straight without saying further, if I did I'd get in trouble, I knew that. 

I bit my lip, tearing the omelet with my chopsticks but before I knew it, the plate had risen, the food going along with it on my face and it hit my forehead, making me push back my chair, my cousins visibly tightened their grips on their chopsticks in fear and I sighed internally, picking up the fallen plate and looking front at them. 

"Mrs Wang, I understand you're angry but that's not a way to deal with your child." Shit, Xiao Zhan was there too and I had completely forgotten about it, planning to move on like nothing happened and for the first time I wanted him to be not there, not with us, not beside me. 

"Sean, you're a lovely boy and I respect you but do not tell me how to or how not to deal with this brat, he asked for it." She said and then gave me the most venomous expression she could muster looking down on her food, my  _ angelic  _ aunt now acting to calm her down that she's not hurt at all by my misbehaviour. But I didn't bother with her, besides, I didn't have a wish to be skinned right here. 

He didn't seem to find that good, "I'm sorry Mrs Wang that it seems like I'm telling you what to do, but I think Yibo is eighteen right? He's an adult he sure doesn't need to be treated like that." His forced smile was just about to fall. "Enough, Sean, you do not dare interrupt us. He's a fool, only growing in age he's still as dumb as he was like always." Father says with a huff. 

A hand cupped my cheek and I looked up at Xiao Zhan staring at me with concern, a short glance where he sat laid his unfinished food and he was so close, so close that I could feel the warmth his body radiated. I sighed, melting in the comforting touch and he brought his second hand up to brush my hair away from my forehead. 

He frowned and grabbed my wrist, pulling me from where I was. " _ Later _ , everyone, me and Yibo will be excusing ourselves." I was surprised my mother didn't object, I had expected her to come by my room and then tell me off for another half an hour but she said nothing, chewing her food with her creases on her forehead from furrowing her eyebrows. Nothing, he just went ahead and left with a 'Later!' like always and no one said anything. 

I was quite amused till I realized I was still getting dragged. I was half expecting him to just lead me out and then say I'm on my own and his favor was to save everything more that could happen, what I didn't expect in the store of his actions was to take me to his own room, not stopping at all in between. 

I could protest, stop, jerk my hand away but I didn't want to because the heat that his palm generated on my wrist was gentle and soothing. He pushed us inside, shut the door behind us and I hated that my thoughts were running to places they shouldn't have after he  _ just  _ saved me from my mother. Apparently in the entangled voices in my head I hadn't even noticed there was a wound on my forehead until he sat me down and started cleaning it with an antiseptic. 

Yes, it wasn't something very big or hurtful, a lot less painful than the scrapes I got during skateboarding and if it was something that I got distracted out of with some touches of Xiao Zhan then it probably, really wasn't anything to be worried about but he treated me with such care, his palm on my cheek and eyes filled with concern. 

Our faces were so close that I could map the moles on his face and make out the shape of his lips, something I'd like to remember even when I later went to sleep so I hissed occasionally with the smallest stings making him look at me with his beautiful round eyes. Not that it hurt or anything, the pain was fully bearable as a male adult of course and my pain tolerance was pretty high but having him worry for me felt nice and I wanted him to keep his attention on me.  _ Only me.  _

I just looked down and stared at his hands for a while, truly, it was amazing how perfect Xiao Zhan was. He almost looked fake like he was hiding an underlying unbearable personality, but I knew he wasn't because anyone till now would've had a slip. He wasn't the most friendly because of his shyness at first but Xiao Zhan was such a wonderful person that maybe the unrealistic expectations of a son his parents used to state might be possible. 

How could one person be this nice otherwise? It would drive me insane, thinking about him. After he was done nursing my forehead, he got up from where he was crouching beside my bed and I couldn't help how my hand automatically reached for his', intervening and I looked up at him with pleading eyes, begging him to stay. 

I took the bandages from his hand and placed them behind me on the table, leaving his palm on my waist he was surprised but didn't back away, didn't flinch nor made efforts to push me just watching with curious eyes like always so I fulfilled my wish, the utmost desire I had in mind since the day he started to clog my mind; I stood on my toes and slotted my mouth against his earning a gasp and his fingers tightening around me, pulling me closer and  _ oh  _ how good that felt. I wanted to melt against him and never be found. 

To become a part of him and stay forever oh I would really do that and never ask for anything in return as long as he kept me close, I couldn't ask for anything else. My hand went at the back of his head, fingers tangling in the shiny dreamy hair I spent so much time on staring and leaned up, pulling his own head down. His hands connected behind me, giving my body a jerk so I wasn't in my own control anymore, hanging onto him desperately, our chests touching and thighs connected. 

I should've pulled away to breathe, to calm down. I should've stopped in a chaste kiss and slowly went ahead but I couldn't, I couldn't stop as I dived in with more force and more lust, Xiao Zhan was a desirable person but he was my most wishful thought as well and I wanted to cherish the taste of his lips on mine for a long time. 

If this was the one and only time he would let me kiss him so be it. I would do my best to leave his mark on me so deep that it could satisfy me till a lifetime and I would leave my brand on him so deep that he wouldn't be able to forget me even when he's wrinkly with grey hair and starts forgetting his own family. 

He pulled away, my head going forward with the rhythm to chase before I came into my senses and panted heavily. We were both out of breath and I could feel his heavy exhales on the top of my head. I wasn't content though, my previous thoughts were a lie and I was feeling the urge to press my lips to Xiao Zhan's but before I could do any of sort, he detached himself from me and then left the room. 

He left his own room, leaving me behind to wonder where he went without a word of notice or when he would come back. After a while, I got tired of standing there and sat on his bed, resting my back against the cold wall. I waited for minutes and hours but Xiao Zhan didn't come back. Around four am I felt my eyes getting heavy and before I knew, I fell asleep. 

Naturally, we made another unspoken agreement to not talk about this incident too. Xiao Zhan never spoke to me about it and I never approached him, too scared to find the answer to my questions.  _ 'Why did you kiss me? What are we? Do you like me, even half as much as I do?'  _ They were impactful and strong and if he'd answer like how I expected, I didn't want to know his answer. 

My mother didn't bother talking to me and I didn't bother apologizing to her, because I didn't need to, not every time for her unreasonable behavior. If she was expecting me to run after her like I always did in the past then she might as well forget about me. I was no longer a lonely awkward teenager crying about family issues. 

For all I cared anymore, they could throw me out after college and I would still not bend to their will. It became normal, she realized I wouldn't give into her and I had long understood she doesn't care. My father occasionally gave me glances I knew too well but he would talk to me for small things and we had never interacted much so it was hard to tell if he was mad at me or it was just a normal day. 

Xiao Zhan was a little jittery the next few days. Then he just started ignoring me, or so it seemed at least. I couldn't expect him to be with me all the time so I would sit in my room, cooped up with my skateboard on the other end of the room just lying there. 

After three nights, I pushed myself up and decided it was enough moping around. I needed to get some fresh air, maybe meet a few locals and I could spend time there, we never had any fixed timings to be home neither in the summer nor on school days as long as I wasn't getting myself into an accident or not coming for three days without giving a notice.

I picked up all the clutter I had gathered in the room and my abandoned skateboard and grabbed my wallet, opening the door and moving out, peeping in his room just once—he was busy with his work so I was extra cautious—and then went on the road. For a while I just made my way around familiar turns and watched the silent neighborhood as darkness was approaching fast. Then I stopped by the beach and made my way into the sandy stretch with my skateboard in my hand. 

The sunset was beautiful, much more now that my life was filled with utmost confusion and a hint of anger was on my mind, with the sun my heart was also going down slowly and I couldn't deny my throat being blocked by a choked cry. I had feared rejection my whole life and yet that was the one thing I faced repeatedly, it didn't help me feel better about myself when I already was convinced I'm not good enough. 

No matter how much I boasted about my looks or my dance skills, kept a cool face and pretended to have a thick head, everyone yearned for the appreciation from family, people close to you and when you don't get that it's like a touch starved person in seclusion. 

I wasn't quite the romantic person, still, looking at the sunset made me wonder how it feels like to watch the pretty scenery with someone you like and maybe my favorite idea of going somewhere isn't the beach nearby wasting time on watching the sun, I could say it's very charming and soothing to the eyes. The glow was soft, unlike in the day and I felt myself getting a little relaxed even if it was just my mind playing games. 

I wasn't sure which one was the case, but I wouldn't mind any. A moment later I felt hands around my shoulders sliding down my arms and a warm body behind me. Before I could jump and hit the stranger or just run a bit, I heard Xiao Zhan. "It's quite selfish of you to take in this sight without telling me." I turned my head surprised, he had been avoiding me for a long while and I had expected that so I never requested another meet or hoped for one either already mentally prepared to forget about him sitting more than 2m distance close to me. 

Right now, he was back hugging me, hands around my own, legs parted to engulf my sides and my back flush against his chest, his face slowly inching closer to sit on my shoulder—the sensations he rose in my body was scary considering we were still both fully clothed and yet, that seemed to make me flustered till a point where I had no reply.

I started at his hands on mine dumbly, my breath was heavy now, I couldn't calm myself down no matter how much I told myself not to freak out. "Xiao Zhan?" I found my voice and looked at him, again, our faces mere inches away and if someone would see us right now—out in public, two men with no sense of distancing—we'd get in trouble but there was no one and I physically wasn't capable of pushing myself away either. 

He snorted and looked like a displeased rabbit. My lips itched to curve on the thought but I subdued it and looked at him, "Stop calling me that,  _ Xiao Zhan,  _ jesus no one calls me that except my parents and my grandma." I laughed and then raised my eyebrow. "Should I call you  _ Seen,  _ then?" It was his turn to laugh and then he pouted. 

A man in his twenties, pouting to me and I found it way too adorable, but then again, I just found Xiao Zhan perfect and nothing about him could ever not brew a spell on me. "I'm not calling you Sean, go away." I said and rolled my eyes to emphasize. 

We sat in silence and after a few minutes, I allowed myself to relax in his arms, resting my head against his chest and closed my eyes. His hands were in my hair, brushing through them and combing until he stopped. "Why did you dye your hair?" I shrugged, "felt like it. Seungyeon said I'd look good with blonde and I had grown them a bit already." Xiao Zhan nodded and then looked me in the eyes. 

"You do look good, you look really handsome." He smiled and my throat went dry, it was so weird and how awful that every time I looked at him, my heart would beat way too fast and I lost my ability to speak correctly. Except I didn't have to speak this time, his lips landing on mine and after I paused for a few seconds, stunned by the sudden action, I kissed back with passion right when he was staring to pull away.  _ Oh no you don't, _ I thought,  _ you started so you have to take the full responsibility.  _

My neck was created into an awkward angle so I turned slowly, without breaking the kiss and threw my legs above his on both sides, wrapped them around his waist and held onto his shoulders to give him a pull. He gasped and I slid my tongue into his soft mouth, taking in his taste. When we parted, he giggled and I found myself wanting to hear more of that. I was mesmerised by this man, absolutely smitten by every detail. 

I looked into the big doe eyes that always caught my attention and felt myself melt. Maybe it was only fair so many people wanted him, he deserves the world's praise and admiration yet I find myself wanting to lock him in my house, only for my eyes to see his beauty. 

He didn't need to know that as his hands were connected behind my back and I let my head rest on his chest. I knew he wasn't going to say it, but he liked me now, at least enough to keep me close to him for a while and I wasn't the best with words as well so it worked that he didn't say anything—we could not use our words to speak if he kept it on mine and I would feel sated. 

The sun changed colours in front but my view was better, Xiao Zhan's lifted face, I could see every detail this close and as the dark consumed the surroundings it didn't affect my observation because I was barely a centimeter away from him. For a long time we sat there, my shorts were making it hard for me to stay longer, feeling cold that I had always been sensitive to and a loose T-shirt adorned on the top, I didn't make any move to get up though loving how his body warmth was keeping me glued on the spot. 

"Young man, you should go home with your girlfriend." I looked up at the voice and saw a beach guard who was talking to Xiao Zhan. He flushed, red painting his cheeks and for that, I forgave the rude interruption rolling my eyes nonetheless but got up, brushing myself and gave Xiao Zhan a handful to get up. His soft palm entangled in mine and we were starting to walk off before I heard that again, "pretty girl you have there." 

That was enough of my politeness and I was just about to shout, maybe pull the man off his feet by his collar and punch him in the face but Xiao Zhan beat me to it and dragged me out. "You shouldn't have stopped me!" I whined and he just shook his head, for the nth time I rolled my eyes again. "Do you like having me as your girlfriend?" I asked and looked at him with big eyes, his red face was way too adorable and I could set my pride aside for that. 

"I-Its not like that.. I don't see you as a woman, you know that? I didn't.. kiss you because you have.. androgynous looks." He says and I laughed at his sincerity, "it's okay to say I look like a girl. I mean, it's not  _ okay  _ because it hurts my man pride but I've heard that quite a lot, a lot more than I'd like." Then I looked at him with a toothy smile, "you're right though, I'm not the girlfriend. You are." 

At that I finally receive a reaction and he looks at me with wide eyes before he starts chasing me. I set my skateboard down and pushed myself as fast as I could without bumping into footpaths. But damn Xiao Zhan and his long legs, he caught up to me after I tripped once and hugged me from behind, our laughs echoing in the empty dark streets. 

I picked it up, tucking it at my side again and walked beside him, bumping my shoulder into his' on purpose until he pushed me with force getting annoyed and I gave another laugh. 

It was like our pact of not facing each other had ended and all I wanted was to bathe myself into his presence taking in as much as I could. I was hungry and desperate for him, only him, nothing could possibly make me distracted now, now that we had shared the intimacy I yearned for since the start. 

"I wasn't kidding when I said androgynous. You don't look like a girl Yibo, it's quite visible you're a man but how do I put this, you have a mixture of features. Like a woman and a man, a light change of angle and one of the features becomes more prominent. I noticed this quite a while back but didn't comment because I heard it's not considered very pleasant to be not strictly 'manly'." He laughs at  _ manly  _ and I twist my lips up at his voice. 

He's right, I had always focused on being  _ manly enough,  _ considering how insecure I was of my face. I knew I was good looking (I'm not narcissistic, it's just an observation) but that didn't save me from snarky comments from other boys and adults thinking it's 'cute' to point it out. But if Xiao Zhan liked it, I guess it was nice to have a face like mine.

This wasn't America, he was right, here in China people focused on specific qualities that would sort you in 'girly' and 'manly', every child growing up was taught those things like how they make people revise literature poems. And after a while you start reasoning with them, I had considered myself pretty cool, it didn't matter if the background Xiao Zhan came from had different values. 

The boys would agree with me after seeing my skateboarding and my favorite to flaunt, sharp Adam's apple so even I got more or less jokes cracked on me about my appearance, they were barely there. I wondered sometimes, if I tried too hard, if I was really fitting in but my worries were usually not too long for. I didn't keep those thoughts in my head to stress on them. 

"So you've been noticing me for a long time.. hmm, and I thought you weren't interested in me." He glared at me and I laughed, his lips curling into his bunny like smile and I wanted to reach out to cup his face. How can someone be this nice to be around? It was impossible how a few hours he would give me left me absolutely swooned over his little details for days, swimming in my mind for hours and hours on repeat. 

Next day I don't see him around and I assumed he was somewhere in the neighborhood houses, there were enough demands for him anyway and I doubted he could even make all of them with his short time here. I went out to the ground and met up with Seungyeon, Yixuan, Sungjoo and Wenhan. "Still not going back?" I said and Sungjoo started clinging onto me while Seungyeon showed his tongue, "you'll miss me too much if I leave Bo-di." 

Sungjoo whined and waited for others to agree but none of us did and he screamed in my ear. It hurt, he had always been way too loud for some reason, so I pushed him off me and we played basketball for a while. "Heard you're housing mister boyfriend." Wenhan said when we were all slouched on the benches. 

I raised my eyebrow, as to ask what he meant and he threw a water bottle at me that I caught before it would hit my face. "You know who, tall, good looking, knows how to cook, speaks English with an accent. Talk of the street nowadays, heck even my sister likes him now. She spent twenty minutes describing his mole." Yixuan and Seungyeon laugh while Sungjoo turns to me then back to Wenhan, "didn't your sister have a huge crush on Yibo before?" "She moved on I guess."  _ Good for her,  _ I thought but remained indifferent. 

"Xiao Zhan, he's the one you're talking about. And he's American so of course he has an accent." I rolled my eyes at them and Yixuan just smiled at our antics, removing his shirt and wiping himself with it, Wenhan mirroring his actions while Sungjoo's hand was playing with my cheeks, pinching, squishing and poking—I was too tired to deal with him so I let it be. 

Seungyeon finally moved forward to join the conversation rather than just laughing, "Yibo, do you have hots for him?" I choked on the water and immediately spat it out, looking down and thank god they thought the redness is just because of the coughing. "Enough Yeon." Yixuan said, patting his shoulder and Seongyeon shrugged. 

I got up before they could put their head more into it, "another game?" Sungjoo shook his head complaining about being tired so the four of us walked to the middle and this time, with the ball dribbling, my heart was thumping loudly in my chest. 

Even if I was attracted to men, very interested in staring at my peers than girls on the other side of grounds and I had felt myself feel flustered around Wenhan sometimes, hard to look away from his tones body and abs when I had started to discover about my preference but they didn't need to know that. None of them needed to know about how I felt about who, that was the only way to keep my social circle after all. 

I smiled around them, participated in the other boys' regular homophobic jokes and pretended to be one of the crowd, to be the  _ straight, strong, aggressive asshole man _ I was expected to be. Pretending had always been nice anyways, I wouldn't have to change myself while fitting in their standards and my preferences. 

At dinner Xiao Zhan still isn't there and this is the first time I don't see him dining with us. I eat like usual, not talking to anyone and passing things around when asked, not looking up for a long time. Waiting. Waiting. Waiting. After a long wait I finally place my chopsticks down and clear my throat, "where's Xiao Zhan?" My mother looks at me for a second and then looks down at her food. 

"He's in his room, working. Said he won't join for dinner today but I had Miyi give him food in his room so he doesn't starve himself." I nodded my head and got up. 

My footsteps were light, I didn't want to interrupt him in case he was busy in work but the old floor still creaked sometimes so my travel wasn't completely silent as a resultant yet it wasn't some heavy run or a distracting sound—I knew how annoying that could be when you're trying to get something done. Xiao Zhan was on his table, papers sprawled around him, leaning back in the chair and head in his hand. 

The table lamp was lit but his body blocked all the light and the room was more or less dark. I went inside not bothering to knock, making my way to his side and before I would speak something my gaze fell on his face—eyes closed, lips slightly parted and neck in an awful position—he looked as adorable as a soft toy and I smiled, taking a picture before tucking my phone inside. I slowly slipped my hands under his knees and over his shoulders. 

My plan was to move him over to his bed but I couldn't as I tried to lift him up but gave up, somehow managing to not disturb him before tumbling back. He was heavier than I had expected, he looked quite lean but I was very skinny as well so it didn't surprise me too much, picking up people would never be my game even if they were shorter. 

This time I slipped my hand under his shoulder, putting one hand of his on my neck and then supported him up by his waist. It wasn't any easier and if the bed was any further I would drop him and collapse. After he was on the bed it was easier to shift him, pushing him on the wall side. It was 8 o'clock and I never slept this early but I laid down beside him. 

"You always look devastatingly good looking Zhan-ge." Maybe the fact that he couldn't hear right now made me voice my thoughts but I didn't speak more, too afraid what might come out if I let my mouth run wild. I had imagined us sharing a bed before, both in innocent and not so innocent ways. 

I felt tempted to press my lips on his' I missed the feeling dearly, how my body tingled and I wanted to take the opportunity, when we were so close right now and he was so within my reach but I stopped myself before I could do anything. As desperate as I was and as impatient my young self had been, I kept the rule of not being intimate in a state where a person couldn't consent.

Even if it was just an innocent chaste kiss, I couldn't bring myself doing that, someone as good as Xiao Zhan would probably even ask a fly before driving it outside or killing it (under worst circumstances, I believe) couldn't be kissed without asking. I had not confirmed just how close he was allowing me to be to him either, I wanted to give myself the full privilege of wrapping his arms around me and us being as close as possible on any time of the fine evenings and nights but I didn't know about him. 

As much as I didn't want to admit, I didn't know about him and his preferences. The observations could only go so far as to learning his physical details and some food likes and dislikes. I didn't know him deep, he was a whole ocean still left to discover the depths of that who knows where it ended and I was only seeing the surface till now. I couldn't bring myself the courage to just assume his nature either. 

Xiao Zhan stirred a few times when I would move too much but eventually go back to sleep, never waking up enough to notice what was happening and I would suppress a laughter every time his face would scrunch up like a little rabbit. Daring enough, I rubbed my nose against his' and it brought me unexplainable joy. I felt like my heart would jump out any moment. 

One thing I had missed the details of was how pretty his face looked even with his eyes closed. The big eyes are not only good to look into when open but now that they were shut, they still looked as beautiful. I found myself wishing that no one else had taken notice of that, for my scenery to keep, because I hoped no one saw him asleep; vulnerable like this. I wanted to have Xiao Zhan so bad that every side of his was driving me crazy without even trying. 

Perhaps he hadn't been to another house but working all day, sleeping like a baby now. I snuggled closer, leaving the lamp on, hugging him and before I could think of going back to my room, I fell asleep. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just another episode of gay little Yibo being in love with xz. 
> 
> For the beach scene, Yibo says xz is his girlfriend is a joke. I'm not doing any feminization of gay characters because I hate that, it's a joke between them. 
> 
> The man calling Yibo a girl isn't able to see his face actually and it's to show the obvious amount of heterosexuality in China that people just assume every couple is straight. The reason why he doesn't think Yibo is a boy is because he's 18 in this fic and 18 y/o Yibo was lankyy as hell. 
> 
> This topic was mainly to address wy getting over his insecurities. Since xz is from USA he has more open thoughts than Chinese society and that's why he laughs at the 'manly' poster image. 
> 
> Also some homophobic thoughts of Yibo's bros sprinkled. And they finally kiss so like, this is going into the fluff area for a bit (but for how long, who knows?)

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading if you did! :) 
> 
> I just want to mention all the places mentioned in the fic exist irl. I wanted to take Yantai for this even though there are other places I could've because I think Yantai is beautiful. It's nothing out of ordinary but I just like it either ways. 
> 
> And the fic /is/ inspired by cmbyn BUT everything that happens in it will be very different and all my original ideas. + I'm not comfortable with writing a minor and adult relationship, even if the minor is 17. Ages of Yibo and Xiao Zhan are respectively 18 and 22, rest of the supportive characters are adults too mostly.
> 
> I also have a twt @etherxibo if you wanna talk or anything!


End file.
